At dawn, everything became a rumor.
It was not yet news - but no longer a whisper.
The prince's name did not go - it crept, like a shiver across stone. Through markets, alleys, mute streets. It was not carried - it was handed from one to another. Like a debt. Like a warning.
The rumor did not arrive - it bit in. Like a dog into bone. Like a raven - into the dead.
It did not call. It scratched.
And so, when the heralds cried out:
- People of Kievan Rus'! Your prince is alive!
In the markets, traders forgot their bargains. Someone dropped coins. Someone - bread. People froze - like before a shot. Or a blow that may not come.
- The Lord has heard! - cried a woman in a kerchief, throwing her hands to the sky. - It is a sign! A sign from above!
Beside her, an old man, a seller of salt, crossed himself quietly. His lips trembled, but his voice was firm:
- He has returned. That means he holds. That means it is not the end yet
The crowd hummed like a hive before spring. The stalls stirred. Someone began to shout, someone laughed. And then - silence, because one voice cut through all.
- Salvation?! - cried a young man in a worn kaftan. - And where were they - all who swore on blood? Where are the governors, where are the boyars, where are the retinues - when Yaroslav's sons were killed one by one?! Where were they when the Polovtsians burned our village?!
He stepped forward, his face pale. Sweat on his temples, foam on his lips. His voice choked on the word "where," and in that moment all the market's noise seemed to shrink its head into its shoulders.
- What if they are already coming? - whispered a woman by the church wall, embracing two children. - What if they know he is alive? What if they are already on the road?
The children, pressed against her, looked at the domes of Saint Sophia as at a shield meant to speak. But the domes were silent. Only the wind, like a call from the future, swept across the stone.
- Mama, what if he does not want to? - asked a boy of about seven, looking not at his mother, but at the ground.
- Who? - she did not understand at once.
- The prince... - he lowered his voice. - What if he does not want to be a prince?
She did not answer. She only held him tighter.
Because the question was not a child's. It was the last one.
At the very edge of the shadow, under a covered awning, two old men played dice. One of them, not looking at the board, exhaled slowly:
- Grand Prince Yaroslav was a pillar. We know this. And now... now each is his own support. We shall see if he can be not a son, but a foundation
The other nodded silently. In his palm lay a clear die with two black dots - like two eyes looking into the dark.
And yet - hope. The word "alive" did not bring joy. It brought silence. The kind that rises between the question and the blade.
Because if the prince is alive - it means he will return.
And if he returns - it means someone will be held to account.
The old man by the wall pulled a bone from his bosom. Small. A child's. White as winter. Everyone around froze.
- All that remains of my son, - he said, and his voice was steady.
The crowd was silent. Only somewhere - a rasp. As if a chest cracked open.
- We are glad he is alive, - the old man went on. - But if he does not go - I will
He did not shout. He spoke like one praying before mortal combat.
- If there is no banner today - I will go myself. And I will take with me those whose children lie like this
He clenched his fist. The bone disappeared.
- We do not need a survivor. We need one who walks
A boy with a water jug gripped the handles so tightly the clay cracked. A woman nearby covered her child's ears. Not from shouting - from meaning.
By the wall, where no one stood, a beggar untied his sack.
Inside lay a rag doll. Faceless.
He looked at it. Then - at the people. Then - at the sky.
And slowly tied the sack shut again.
He knew: the doll would not rise again. But someone had to remain, to hold it, while others walked.
The crowd did not murmur. Did not cry out.
The silence that hung afterward no longer rang. It grated. Like metal on metal. It was not a reaction. It was a decision.
And from that moment, Kyiv did not wait.
It did not walk - it rose.
It became a body. It wove fear into its fabric. Drank anxiety like molten iron. Not to cool. To temper.
It gathered.
Not for a campaign. Into itself.
Sharpening plowshares. Binding mail. Sending boys to the sentries - to listen if smoke could be seen.
It did not go behind the prince. It went ahead of him. So that, if he fell - there would be someone to hold the line.
Because Rus' - is not only the prince.
It is those who pick up the banner when it falls into the mud.
And by dawn, the rumor ceased to crawl - it rose. Like a banner. Like a target. Like a vow.
The city was not singing yet - but it was already looking in one direction.
The light was grey, the air - piercing. But it already hummed with expectation.
The morning was deaf. Stony.
The sky above Kyiv did not brighten.
It stretched taut, like skin over a drum before the first strike. But when Metropolitan Illarion stepped onto the balcony of Saint Sophia, and his figure rose above the crowd - it seemed as though the church itself had begun to speak.
He did not raise his hands. Did not call out. He simply stood. But his voice struck like a bell into the icy dawn.
- People of Kievan Rus'! Today is not a rumor. Today is a sign. Not from men. From heaven
The crowd did not roar. It hushed. As if every sound within it had been pressed down by a hand.
- The Lord, in His infinite mercy, has not left us orphans. The last son of the great Yaroslav is alive. Alexander has returned. Not from the road. From the edge
He spoke not to the crowd - to the soul. To that which burned beneath every rib from fear.
- This is not merely salvation. This is a shield. This is a standard. This is the very sign that Rus' is not forsaken
He paused. A moment. The word was already on his tongue - but would not come.
He knew it was too heavy.
- And if he stands... - he said again. - Then we will stand
Because he knew: not all will rise. But someone - must.
Cries did not break through at once. First - breath. Then - rustle. Then - a shout:
- Alive! The prince is alive!
A roar swept across the square like an oncoming front of wind.
Someone shouted. Someone fell to their knees. A woman lifted her child up - and the child did not cry, but looked into the sky, where the domes of Saint Sophia were now not a roof, but a shield.
But Illarion did not allow the rapture to become background. He struck with a second toll:
- And if he is alive - we must rise beside him. Not as servants. As Rus'
He did not raise his hands. But the entire cathedral seemed to part its walls for these words.
- In seven days - the Annunciation. A day when none expect. A day when they act. Not just to the throne. To the frontier. Between falling apart - and gathering. Between fear - and strength
The crowd exploded. But within - a shadow.
Because nearby, in the very midst, an old man in a black cloak whispered:
- Praise... or farewell? If the enemies have learned - they are already coming
The words drowned in the roar, but did not vanish. They remained, like a splinter in the flesh. And when the crowd sang, someone was already beginning to think:
- But what if...
Illarion's words fell silent - but did not disappear. They were imprinted. Like the mark of a hand on hot wax.
They were not repeated. But the whole square now breathed them. As though the church had not spoken - but placed them within.
This was not singing. This was the growl of Rus', which had been silent too long.
Not harmonious. But mighty. Like a river in flood. Even those who had stood at first with stony faces began to sing. Not for others. For themselves. To believe.
This was not a song. This was an oath. Warm. Heavy. In the chest, in the throat, in the bones.
And from that moment, Kyiv ceased to be a listener.
It became a body.
The city did not stir - it awoke. As if the whole mechanism of an ancient heart had started again.
Carts stretched through the streets. Merchants brought wax, cloth, bread, meat, incense. Washerwomen hung fabrics like flags. Stonemasons struck cracks in the paving with ringing blows.
The air was filled with the scent of bread, smoke, ash, honey, and heated stone.
From the square came children's shouts:
- I heard he doesn't eat, only prays!
- Fool, he's a prince, not a saint! - grumbled a cobbler. But he smiled.
Someone nearby snorted - not in malice, but because he wanted to live. On this day even fictions sounded like prophecy.
And this - was movement. True. Not by command. By impulse.
The old walked silently. The young - with defiance. Beggars - as witnesses. Women - with bundles in their hands, as if they already knew where they would stand.
And all this - because someone stepped onto a balcony and said: "Alive."
Now it had to be proven: that Rus', too, is alive.
And so - those who did not shout began to go. Who did not cast phrases. Who simply understood.
Blacksmith Savva removed his apron. Knocked out the coals. Came up to his son. Silently. Only looked.
- We take the swords, - he said.
The son wanted to ask something. But Savva was already walking.
He did not dream of war. He simply knew: if you do not go - tomorrow there will be no one to forge.
Without slogan. Without oath. Simply - it is time.
By the southern gates the eldest of the washerwomen placed a barrel of water. Leaned on it. Looked into the distance. No one had called her. But she was already in place.
- He will pass here, - she said. - And whoever does not pass - is not one of us
In the crowd, by the cathedral wall where people were singing, a woman held an infant in her arms.
She did not sing.
Did not look at the cathedral. Nor at the sky. Nor at the princely standards.
Only at one thing - the line of the horizon.
Where the smoke was rising. There were no villages. No sentries.
Only steppe. Only wind.
Only the ghost of what may come while we sing.
And now it was no longer faith.
It was a decision.
Kyiv did not rush. Did not march. It drew in breath. Like a beast before a leap.
It was gathering.
Not for battle. For readiness.
It pulled its nerves taut, checked the stones in its walls, sharpened its hearts.
Not for the prince. For the sake of not being trampled.
And if the prince falls - someone must hold the line.
It was not preparing to follow.
It was preparing to become the support. The one that remains when the banner falls into the mud.
Because the prince may fall.
But the land - cannot.
The land must hold.
And so - each had to become a link. A shield. An eye.
The city was rising. But someone had to watch that no shadow slipped through its stride.
And on the city wall of Kyiv, beneath the grey sky, stood Supreme Voivode Ignat Slavyansky.
His silhouette seemed not a figure - but a shadow of the fortress. His cloak struck against the stone like a banner without a staff. But he did not move. Did not look around. Only downward - at the living, dense mass by the cathedral.
He counted not faces - but points of entry. Not voices - but directions of sound. Not joy - but deviations from the norm.
- We must be prepared, - he said. Quietly. Without emotion. As if stating - wind from the northwest. - In this crowd, there may be not only thieves and gossipers. There - are those who await a moment. And a blade
Beside him - Stanislav. Head of the princely retinue.
He did not reply at once. He watched as carpenters reinforced the ladder at the cathedral's entrance. One strike - one step toward the day when every word may become the last.
- Seven days, - he said, as if tasting the term. - We cannot lose a single hour. Everyone who enters the city will be checked. Every glance - tracked. Even if we must go without sleep
Ignat gave a faint smile, without turning:
- This is not the search for a needle. This is dry straw and an east wind
Stanislav turned to him. Not as one arguing. As one laying a stone on the table:
- Precisely why we cannot err. He who waits for the blow will err. We - do not wait. We meet it
Ignat said nothing.
He did not clench his fingers. He caught the pulse. And now would not let go.
A blade? A rope?
Or the pulse of the city.
Because while Kyiv drank hope, the steppe was already breathing in steel.
Where there were no songs - blades were being honed. Where there was no waiting - they were counting the steps to death.
In a tent where lamps hung and the map cracked from the heat, Khan Kirchan stood over a scout.
Shadows danced on the tent walls as if someone were burning them alive. Every gust of wind made the flame tremble - as though the steppe itself longed to hear what the khan would say.
The scout trembled. Sweat rolled down his temples as though he were not standing - but drowning.
- Repeat, - said Kirchan. Quietly. Like ice cracking underfoot. - Slowly
- My khan... - he swallowed, his voice broke. - Alexander... survived. The joint ambush failed. In Kyiv they say - in a week he will ascend the throne
Silence.
And then - a dull blow: the khan's fist crashed into the table with a crack. The lamp swayed, oil dripped onto the map. The wood split. The scout flinched like a wounded animal.
- One boy! - Kirchan roared. - One! And you failed!
He leaned closer. In his eyes gleamed not fury - but disgust.
- Those who stand in my way disappear. So completely even fear forgets them
The scout trembled as if held over a precipice.
But Kirchan stepped back. Not because he forgave - but because he was tired of looking. He waved his hand, as though brushing off dust:
- Leave. Before I decide you are lighter than ash
The man darted to the exit. The curtain fell. Silence remained.
- Call Tarkhan, - Kirchan said, without looking.
A minute later, a man entered the tent. Tall. Silent. In armor that did not shine - but rang with danger.
Tarkhan did not bow. He only lowered his head. That was "yes."
He stepped into the light, and his shadow fell across the map - not the shadow of a man, but of a blade.
Kirchan stood by the map, marked with signs like a body with wounds.
- What makes a steppe wolf strong? - he asked without raising his eyes.
- Fangs, - said Tarkhan.
Kirchan snorted:
- No. Hunger. Hunger makes us hunters. Forces us to take what is not ours. And survive where others perish. But if we let it rule - it will devour even us
He turned slowly.
- Kyiv is a wounded beast. Now it runs. But if it rises - it will bite. And its bite - is death. And then it will be too late
Tarkhan narrowed his eyes slightly. Silent. But his eyes said everything: he understood. Not just accepted the order - felt its weight.
- Take the best. Let the Pechenegs send a detachment. Tukmakchi, kantari, wolf-throats - all. The strike must be like death. Without noise. Without chance
- It will be done, - Tarkhan said quietly.
He did not nod. He only looked. And in that look there was no loyalty. There was understanding.
He knew that blood does not correct mistakes. But sometimes it is all that remains.
He stepped - and vanished, like a predator that leaves no sound.
Only Kirchan remained in the tent.
He stood over the map. And suddenly - for a moment - froze.
Memory flared like a spark from flint. One prince. One moment. How he stood - in blood, but proud. How they dragged him across the snow, how the helmet fell, how the ice cracked beneath his body.
Kirchan had felt no pity then. But he remembered.
And so now he spoke not loudly, not in anger. Almost calmly:
- Even if he rises - he will fall.
He raised the goblet. The kumis burned with cold. Like a debt that is never forgiven.
- The chosen one... - he scoffed. - I have seen gods fall. Their temples crumbled beneath our hooves. Let them believe in protection. We - are the storm
He leaned over the map. His finger traced across it like a knife across a throat. Kyiv. Pereyaslavl. Chernihiv.
- All this - is mine. Their prince will fall - and the yurt of Rus' will collapse. Their gold will become our scabbards. Their songs - dust
The wind struck the tent. The lamps quivered. The flame lashed like a trapped beast.
- To the hunger that makes us stronger, - he whispered.
He raised the goblet, like a verdict. Smashed it - and without waiting for silence, stepped out of the tent.
The wind rose.
The tent behind him swayed - as if bowing.
Before him lay the steppe. Black. Silent.
Like a mouth about to open - and swallow.
Kirchan did not cry out. He did not even smile.
He simply stepped forward.
And in that instant, the steppe understood:
what comes is not a warrior,
not a khan,
not vengeance.
Hunger comes.
And it knows its name.
***
Thank you to those who are reading.
If you have made it this far - it means something has worked. I hope the story has touched you not only with its events, but with the breath of the words.
What lies ahead will not be easier. But it will remain on the same level. No descent, no mercy.
Walk it with me to the end.
This is not a tale. This is a path.